Riding in Cars with Boys
by foojules
Summary: Modern AU. Sixth-former Sybil Crawley has been carrying on a secret romance with intriguing not-so-bad boy Tom Branson. One night, she sneaks out of Downton Abbey to meet him and they go for a ride in more ways than one.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: This is a response to dustedoffanoldie's request for a modern AU where Sybil loses her virginity and it doesn't go so well. I put it up on tumblr but thought I'd post it here as well. This particular fic is more gritty realism (though not _too _gritty) than idealized romance, so if you're expecting unicorns and rainbows you will probably be disappointed. :)_

* * *

Sneaking out of the house is dead easy. She's done it a hundred times before. The moon is out, making things look all silvery and fantastical, and it lights her way to the end of the drive where he's waiting under the trees in his gargantuan beast of a car. Seriously, the thing must be twenty feet long. He's turned it off - it guzzles about a liter of petrol a minute, even at an idle - but it coughs to life as she approaches the passenger door. Before she can reach for the handle he's leaned over and pushed it open for her.

"Hi, love," he says, giving her that smile. Sybil can still remember the first time she saw it, beaming out the window of this very car. Normally she ignores men who try to talk to her in the street, but that smile, those eyes, were un-ignorable.

"Hi," she returns, her voice husky from not speaking since she "felt ill" and "went to bed." Then he reaches over and pulls her across the seat and his mouth is on hers, sucking the breath from her throat. He's caught her on an exhale and she's seeing yellow stars burst in her vision by the time he lets her go.

"Mmm," he murmurs, and leans in again, and part of her just wants to sit here and snog for a while but they're still too close to the house for her comfort.

"We should go," she says.

"Whatever you say." He smiles at her again and drives off, adjusting the radio. There's a tape player - a tape player! - but it's broken.

He drives deeper into the countryside, past wheat-fields and pastures where sheep and cows roam during the day. She's been to his flat in Ripon a handful of times, but he seemed ill at ease having her there, seeing how he lives. And they don't have much time: it's a school night, after all.

The road tunnels into a wood, the overarching trees blotting out the moonlight. With the foliage closed in around them the glare of the headlamps is suddenly much more intense, and Tom switches off the brights. Sybil studies him surreptitiously in the glow from the instrument panel. He's absorbed in his task, eyes fixed on the road. The turnoff is hard to see and even at full concentration he almost misses it. They only discovered it a couple of weeks ago, but already it's _their spot_.

He drives down the rutted dirt track until it ends in a small clearing: years ago there was a house here. But now all that's left are the broken rocks of the foundation, heaped higher where the chimney was. He pulls the car under the spreading branches of a single tree standing alone in the middle of the clearing and turns it off, leaving the key turned back so they'll have the music.

"Alone at last," he cracks, but his voice has an eager undertone to it.

"Yep." Sybil smiles, feeling a tingling rush of adrenaline deep in her belly, one she's come to associate with him. He unbuckles his seatbelt and in one fluid movement slips between the seat backs and into the backseat, where he lounges across it, smirking an invitation. The silvery light from the window catches his face, making Sybil think of what Mary said after the time she caught them talking: _He does have bedroom eyes, I'll give him that._

Sybil doesn't quite know what that means, but she does know they're irresistible. She clambers back to sit beside him and soon she's straddling his lap, his hands threaded into her hair. She could do this all day, all year: his lips are so soft on hers.

But he is not as patient. He's not used to dating someone so much younger, if you could call what they're doing _dating_. He's taken her to see a few films, though they never seem to watch the end. But mostly their relationship has consisted of stolen moments like these, and they make the most of them. Sybil's not been able to get much out of him concerning his past girlfriends but she imagines them as worldly, beautiful, wearing dark lipstick. In their twenties, like him. They probably didn't ever stop his hand creeping down their knickers, like she's doing now. She moves it onto her hip, but it slides inexorably back into her waistband and he whispers against her mouth "Please," and "Trust me," and kisses her with such sweetness that her head swims and Sybil finds herself murmuring an assent. He undoes her jeans with practiced ease and his hand moves downward and she starts thinking about what she decided in her room earlier, what she's been turning over in her mind for weeks now: it's high time she lost her virginity. What's the point of delaying? Some stupid idea of purity? "True love waits"? _Well_, she reasoned, _what if your true love turns out to be rubbish at having sex?_

The decision was the easy part. The difficulty is getting over her nerves. She thought she would just come out with Tom tonight and see how things went; they appear to be moving along at an impressive rate. His hand is busy inside her knickers and it feels all right, she supposes. He seems to be having a much better time than she is, groaning and kissing her neck, and she can feel his hot hardness against her, but the positioning is awkward and she's self-conscious - is she clean enough? She's never had to worry about these things before.

"I love you, Sybil," he whispers into her ear. "God... I love you so much." He sounds like he's dreaming, like he's drunk, even though she knows he's not.

He removes his hand from her jeans and pulls back a bit to take her face in his hands and he looks at her as if he's just asked a very important question. Drowning in his lovely eyes, she whispers back "I love you too." She means it wholeheartedly.

Apparently that's the answer he's been waiting for. Somehow she ends up lying on the seat with him on top of her. His hand slides underneath her bra, teasing her nipple in a way that would be exciting if she weren't so nervous, and he must be able to feel the way her heart's pounding because he asks, "Are you sure you want to? It's all right if you're not," though he's pawing her at the same time.

She can barely get up the breath to reply "I'm sure." Tom takes off his jeans and his underwear - he leaves his socks on, and Sybil's too tonguetied to object - and then hers, and even though it's a warm night the leather of the seat is shockingly cold against her bum. Then he's got to dig in his clothes for the condom, and she glances away while he puts it on, and then it's time and she just wants it to be _over _already, hymen broken, the box checked: let's move on, shall we?

But when he goes to put it in she feels a sharp burning sensation that makes her gasp involuntarily and bite her lip. "Ow!"

"Sorry," he grunts, and shifts, and tries again, but the pain doesn't get better; if anything it's worse. He keeps pushing in, though, and she tries to bear it, thinking it'll go away at any moment. It doesn't.

"Are you... in yet?" She asks, teeth gritted.

"I don't think so." He moves and she sucks her breath through her teeth. "Shit," he mutters, reaching down to adjust himself, to feel her. He's quivering, both with effort and with arousal.

He moves forward again and this time she can feel him come fully into her. It still hurts, but not quite as much as before. _You can do this_, she thinks.

He smiles down at her awkwardly. "All right?"

"Yeah." She gives him a smile that she hopes will reassure him, even though she herself is far from comfortable.

He kisses the tip of her nose, then her mouth, and he starts to move rhythmically and it's not so bad, it only hurts a little. The whole time he's caressing her cheeks and her hair and following the touch of his hands with kisses. Every so often he'll say her name and as it goes on the pain becomes less and less until it's mostly gone. After a while his movements grow more intense and he buries his face in her neck and his arms tighten around her and she feels more than hears his drawn-out groan against her skin.

He sighs and grows heavy on top of her, but only for a moment. Then he props himself up on his arms and kisses her again and tells her he loves her.

"I love you," she says, for the second time.


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: So I was thinking more about this fic and decided that I agreed with the reviewers that it needed a sequel... just in time for smut weekend. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Some weeks later

It was Sybil's idea for them to get out of the car. Tom has brought a blanket this time—he could kick himself for not thinking of it before—and she spreads it on the ground, which is hardly damp at all. It's a fine warm night in a string of them, rare for this time of year here, or so she says. He wouldn't know. Though where he comes from you also have to take advantage of the good weather while you can.

They lie gazing up at the stars and the waxing moon. At first they are merely side by side on their backs, but Tom soon reaches over to take Sybil's hand. He can't seem to keep from touching her. It doesn't even have to be sexual: he just wants to feel the warmth of her skin whenever she's within reach. He even rests his left hand on her leg when he drives, steering the car with his right.

When he's not with her he's thinking of her, and it's only gotten worse since they started having sex. At work they've been rolling their eyes: _You fit to handle heavy machinery there, Paddy?_ His coworkers josh him mercilessly, knowing exactly what's going on—_She must be a nice bit o' fanny, Branson_—but they cover for him when he ballses up. He's grateful, though he knows their patience won't last forever.

He doesn't talk to her about work, and she doesn't talk about school. Their conversations don't deal much in the mundane. Instead they speak of the wider world and the changes they'd like to see in it; journeys they dream of making, not all of them physical. Sybil often bemoans her sheltered upbringing. She feels like she's never done anything, she says, but she wants to. Tom intuits that for her this means leaving Yorkshire. He himself doesn't feel any sense of attachment to the area, having just arrived in the last year, but he doubts that her plans for the future are likely to include him. Girls like her go to uni, maybe after a gap year spent swanning around the Continent, and then they land jobs in London or get married and put their expensive educations to use bringing up two or three little 'crats. Girls like her have flings with guys like him. Nothing more.

But Sybil isn't a _girl like her_: she is herself. And that's what gives Tom hope.

He knows that he's probably in a lot of trouble, emotionally speaking. _She's too far above me_, he's told himself, or more accurately her family is, but it doesn't matter: right from the start he's been gone on her.

It was pure impulse, speaking to her from the car window that first time. Tom's certainly not given to harassing strange women in the street, having taken to heart his sisters' complaints about men doing it. He'd got turned around in the country lanes after being left in the dust by his co-worker Pete, who was delivering some toff's freshly repaired Audi and would need a ride back into Ripon, and ended up a village over from where he wanted to be. He was at a Downton's one traffic light, trying to figure out which way to go and wishing he had a smartphone, when he caught sight of a young woman with long dark hair coming his direction on the pavement. _Pretty girl_, he said to himself, as he did twenty times a day while walking or driving, not thinking much of it. Then she glanced up and their eyes happened to touch through the windscreen and Tom's stomach did a slow somersault. He had no idea why out of all the women he came in contact with this one should have such an effect on him, but before he could think about it he was lowering the passenger-side window and smiling.

"'Scuse me," he said, "You wouldn't happen to know how to get to Skipton-on-Swale?"

Instead of drawing back, as he half expected she would, she smiled. "It's just that way," she replied, whirling around to point to his right. "You go down that street there until you get out of the village, then turn left and go until you hit the A61, then take that to Skipton. You'll be there straightaway."

"Thank you." But the light was still red and she did not walk away, so he decided to press his luck. "You know your way around pretty well, then."

"I should. I grew up here," she said. "How about you?"

"I'm not from here." She ducked her head with a grin and Tom thought _Well that's obvious, you git_. "I'm from Dublin originally."

She glanced up. "Your light's changed." A split second later the car behind him gave a short impatient honk of its horn.

Again without thinking, he turned left and pulled over to the kerb. The girl stayed put, though she glanced about and fluttered a little as though mapping out the best escape route. Tom made no move to get out of the car, though, merely leaning across the seat to speak to her. "I'm Tom."

"I'm Sybil," she replied. She blinked and a blush rose to her face as the smile slowly returned to it. _She can't be older than eighteen or nineteen_, he realized. _Maybe younger._ "It's nice to meet you, Tom." She cocked her head, giving him an appraising look before she walked up and stuck out her hand to shake his, unafraid.

She didn't get into his car that day, but a quarter of an hour later he was buying her a cup of tea and a bun in a shop down the street. He'd completely forgotten Pete, who rang him on his ancient mobile ten minutes after that, none too pleased. "I got lost," Tom told him, which was true, and grinned at Sybil. "I'll be there in twenty minutes." Then he left, but not without Sybil's mobile number.

That was the easy part. Tom's had a knack with the opposite sex for as long as he can remember, and Sybil is no exception. Since the beginning of their relationship he has been well aware of the effect he has, the way she gets a bit cow-eyed when he smiles at her and how she quivers at his touch; it's part of the reason he likes touching her so much. The difference is that she does the same thing to him. With her he feels like he's twelve years old again, nursing a hopeless crush on his mate Donny's older sister. Tom's still half in awe that Sybil has chosen him to be the one to initiate her into adulthood, and he takes the responsibility seriously.

Driving her home after their first time he was almost sick, his gut churning with mingled exultation and near-panic. Sybil was so quiet and Tom couldn't make himself speak: he was too afraid of the answers she might give to any of the questions pinging round his brain. When he dropped her at the end of her drive she kissed him lightly on the cheek and closed the car door behind her and he drove off, his face numb with the terrified certainty that she'd never want to see him again. But he made himself ring her the next day and she was fine, if a little preoccupied, and when they met a few days later the reserve that had built up in the car on the way back to Sybil's had fallen away, and they could talk as if nothing were different.

But Tom believes things have been different since they first had sex, mostly in good ways. Sybil has never been a shrinking violet but she seems even more confident, dare he say more womanly, now. When they're together they touch more, but their caresses are not so urgent. Now that their relationship's been consummated, it has lost some of the gothic-novel feeling of a doomed romance.

And he has tried to make it better for her. Each time has been a little more comfortable than the last, as they've learnt their way around each other. It doesn't hurt at all anymore, she says: _it's absolutely fine, Tom_. But _fine _is not how he'd have her describe it. Fine is an only slightly dried-out roast beef sandwich and crisps in front of the telly. Fine is a four-year-old Astra with low miles at an affordable price. Fine is not the knife's-edge transcendence he feels when he's with her. It's obvious, so painfully obvious, that she's still doing it for him.

He knows the desire is there within her. If it weren't, she wouldn't make the sounds she does when he kisses that spot under her ear, wouldn't move into his touch when his hand steals beneath her shirt. He does not believe she's putting it on for his benefit: that isn't Sybil's style. And she doesn't wait for him to start things, either. Now, watched only by whatever creatures have made their home around the crumbled foundations of the long-forgotten house in their clearing, Sybil is the one who leaves off talking and reaches for him.

It feels so natural under the open sky, and it isn't only that there's more room to maneuver. Tom has always liked being in his car: it's not much but it's familiar and unlike the flat in Ripon it is truly his. Without its curved skin blotting out the stars, though, he feels freer of mental constraints. Sybil seems to as well, kissing him with more abandon than she's ever done before. For the first time, she pulls his shirt over his head instead of waiting for him to undress. She starts to undo his jeans and lust swirls over him like floodwaters.

Thus far they've not done anything more than sex in the missionary position and a bit of touching, and Tom knows that's most likely the reason for Sybil's relative coolness. He has never asked her about her previous experience: she was the one to volunteer the information that she'd not gone much past kissing. Knowing that, he hasn't wished to alarm her by getting too creative. But tonight his head is fizzing, whether from the stars overhead or the silkenness of her skin or both, he doesn't know and does not care. In a fog he rolls her onto her back, quickly enough that a sharp laugh breaks from her throat, drags her shirt up and off, bends to leave a trail of rough kisses down her stomach. When he gets to her trousers he flicks his eyes upward to find her watching him warily. She catches his look and gives him a tiny smile, the uneasy crease in her forehead smoothing, and reaches back to undo her bra and wriggle out of it. Tom smiles back and lays another kiss just above her trouser button before he unslips it and pulls down the zip. She lifts her hips to let him slide her jeans over them, and he takes his off as well before settling back between her legs.

Sybil's tense: this is uncharted territory for her. He wants to tell her to relax, but he knows that if he does she'll just smile gamely like she does every time they do something she hasn't done before, as though she's above desire but perfectly willing to humor him. So he comes back up to hover over her and kiss her mouth, and her arms come up around him and little by little she slackens and forgets herself and begins to move along with him. Instead of using words to try and make her comfortable Tom uses his lips, traveling slowly down her throat and between her breasts, and gentle hands that slide down her waist and over her hips, slipping her knickers off. He kisses her belly, her hipbone, reaches down to rub the arch of her foot. His fingertips drift up her inner thigh, feather-light, and his mouth follows just as softly and Sybil gasps, opening her legs wider, but still Tom holds back. He touches her everywhere except the place she's expecting him to.

Finally, though, he can't wait any longer. She's warm and already wet but she tenses just slightly before he circles her clit with his tongue, brushes his lips over it. She shivers and lets her knees fall open again with a rapt "_Ohh_."

"Mmm," he moans in answer. He's told himself that he should make it obvious that he's enjoying it so that she won't worry about whether he is or not. As it turns out, he has no need of the reminder. Sybil stays quiet at first, her silence only punctuated by the occasional indrawn breath or stifled moan, but she moves toward him, clearly wanting more.

Tom's focus sharpens even as his thoughts scatter. He settles into a rhythm: now drawing delicate patterns on her skin with his tongue, now giving soft kisses, now sucking gently, now a little harder. He's never felt so connected to Sybil before. Each of his actions draws a response from her, which guides him in turn. Quite soon he's brought her to a point where she's no longer thinking about how she looks or sounds and Tom can tell that she is close: she's soaking wet and quivering and she mumbles his name, desperation in her voice, and he feels a wild rush of pride that he can do this, that he's able to lower her courteous mask of accommodation and bring out her pleasure-seeking instinct.

He redoubles his efforts and brings his hand up to slide a finger inside her, two fingers. It makes Sybil whimper when he strokes a certain place so he keeps stroking it, licking all the while, until he hears her breath catch, feels her begin to shudder. He stills as she trembles, panting, on the edge. His name escapes her, a drawn-out whisper, a plea. Finally he flicks his tongue again to nudge her over and the small of her back rises off the ground as she thrusts toward him, her breath exploding in gasps and birdlike cries. Tom moves his hands to cradle her hips, reveling in the taste of her. Between kisses, he whispers her name into her most private place. He doesn't want to stop and so he doesn't, slipping his tongue deeper, thrilling at every twitch and moan. He's acutely aware of the ground rubbing against him as he moves and he feels almost as though he could come right now, just from this.

Sybil's questing hand moves over his hair, finds his ear, his cheek. Breathless, she says his name once more. Tom pushes himself up and with shaking hands he fumbles for his wallet and manages to get the condom out and unwrap it, desire making him clumsy.

"Let me," Sybil says, and in her face he sees not compliance but eagerness. Hunger, even.

He kisses her fervently as she puts the condom on. At first she draws back from his mouth, but he reaches up to caress her hair and she relaxes. She puts her tongue out hesitantly, runs it over his top lip. Laughs a little. Says, "I thought it might taste bad, but it really doesn't."

"No," Tom agrees, his voice husky. "It doesn't." They lie down again. He tries not to hurry, though he wants nothing more than to be buried in her warmth, but with her hands she urges him on top and sighs as he slides into her. For a moment he can't move or even breathe: with Sybil so aroused, the _more _is so heightened that he hardly knows where he is. Then _she _moves, pushing her hips up to meet his, and conscious thought gives way to instinct. He covers her mouth with his, thrusting with no thought of gentleness. She seems to like it, though, moaning loudly whereas before she's always been practically silent. She starts moving against him more vigorously; Tom realizes what she is seeking and so he slows his pace and begins to circle his hips, grinding himself deliberately against her clit as her tongue slips into his mouth.

"Tom," she breathes as he reaches up and grazes her breast with his hand. He rubs her nipple, circles it with his fingertips, and she jerks and whimpers, "Oh Tom, oh, _Tom—_" and the feeling of her clenching around him, the sound of her renewed cries, is enough to make white stars burst in his vision as he comes. _I love you always, always, please don't ever leave me. Oh God I love you so fucking much_. For a moment he thinks he might have said the words out loud.

He rolls over, giving a little sigh as their bodies separate. Sybil continues to lie on her back, eyes closed, head resting on the blanket. Her chest rises and falls with her gradually slowing breath and her skin seems to glow white, like she's a statue come to life. She opens her eyes, dark stars shining up from the ground, turning her gaze on him before letting it drift up to the sky. Tom can't resist kissing her eyebrow, the corner of her mouth, feeling it quirk up under his. "I didn't know it could be like that," she says.

Lying on his side, Tom props his head on his hand. "Really?"

Her eyes shift back to his face. "Well, I've read things, but I figured it was just made up. No one I know who's done it ever made it sound that great. And with you and me it had been..." she cuts off, looking away guiltily.

Tom smirks. "_Fine_?"

Sybil chuckles. "Well, certainly not like in those books Anne Rice wrote." She winds her arms around Tom's neck, drawing him to her, their mouths sliding together. He stays there with his forehead pressed to hers. "I really liked it, though," she murmurs. "All of it, but... especially the, uhm, the going down on me."

Tom thinks of her, wet and writhing under his tongue, and gives her another long kiss. "I liked it too," he says. "I loved it."

"I wasn't sure about it at first," she admits. "I didn't know blokes really liked doing that."

He kisses her again. "Sybil, you don't ever have to worry about that with me." He pauses, getting his thoughts in a row. "It's twice as good for me, you know, when you're into it."

"I know," she says. "I know you're not just trying to get your jollies and get out."

Tom shakes his head, smiling. He's always had a way with words, but it appears to be failing him now. "I'm not just being nice, though. I mean it's _really _better for me when it's good for you. This time, tonight, was..." he can't think of a word that will do it justice, so he settles for "...amazing."

Sybil draws back a bit and cocks her head, skeptical but wanting to believe. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." Her eyes drop away from his and he thinks she might be blushing, though it's hard to tell in the greyscale cast of the moonlight. He traces her cheekbone with a fingertip. "And I also love you and want to make you happy. So I suppose it's equal parts selfish and unselfish."

She looks into his face again, smirking. "And let's not forget you've got your ego to maintain."

Tom rolls his eyes. "Please. We both know who's the egotistical one."

"Yeah, you are." she tickles his ribs and he lets out a yelp, responding in kind and rolling onto her. They wrestle until it gets to be a bit much for them and he stops tickling, still on top of Sybil, both of them breathing heavily, conscious of him hard between their bodies. He's right there, this close, and he could just slip into her—

"Do you have another condom?" she whispers.

"In the car."

"Well, you'd better go and fetch it, hadn't you?" She gives him a cheeky smile, and Tom moves as quickly as he ever has in his life.

-o-

They are quiet again on the drive back, but this is a different sort of silence from the one of _that _night, as Tom cannot help thinking of it. Then the air seemed choked with unsaid words, but tonight Tom feels as though he and Sybil are communing without the need to speak. Sybil holds his left hand in both of hers, stroking his knuckles as he drives.

They have not talked about the future—_their _future, if they have one—in more than the most general terms. She's so young and he is rootless, scraping by as best he can until the next opportunity comes along. He's tried not to think too much about what will happen when reality sets in. What her family would think of her seeing him. How he and she would maintain a connection with her off at uni. It's easier just to take her out to their spot and make love and lie back and look at the stars.

Tom turns his hand to squeeze hers gently, and Sybil squeezes his in return. He glances to the side to find her grinning at him; love-drunk, he smiles back. They have no idea where they're going, but for now, that's all right.


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: This is in response to the EAST tumblr prompt (EAST = Edith, Anthony, Sybil, Tom) and I thought it would be interesting to explore the situation that might develop if Edith, rather than Mary or Sybil's parents, was the first to find out what she was up to. Especially if Edith had her own secret..._

* * *

Edith watches her younger sister scamper up the drive, a dark shape against the gravel's white glow in the pale light of the stars. She stands with the curtains open, knowing she won't be seen with her bedroom light off. Anyway Sybil is too preoccupied with glancing over her shoulder every few steps, to where the car still waits. Edith can just see the stream of exhaust rising from the back of it.

Sybil approaches the house and Edith imagines rather than hears the sound of the front door opening and closing. The car at the end of the drive pulls away, lights still off. A hundred yards down the road, they flare into life and then disappear over a rise.

_She really should be more careful,_ Edith thinks. She does not know how many times Sybil has slipped out, but this is the second time Edith's caught sight of her in as many weeks. If she doesn't start being more discreet, she's going to get caught.

Edith smiles at the thought of what Mary would say if she knew her innocent, serious darling was sneaking out to meet a boy, and at the knowledge that for once she herself knows something that Mary doesn't. She is less gleeful about their parents' likely reaction. If Sybil is keeping her relationship a secret, whoever drives that car—twenty years old if it's a day—must not be someone who would meet with their approval.

Edith has no plans to expose her: not to Mary, certainly not to Mama and Papa. After all, she's in no position to judge. As it happens, Edith has a secret of her own.

-ooo-

It's wildly inappropriate, of course. He's her professor. Or was, before the term finished, but he remains skittish about making their relationship public. Being the sort of man he is, he's been scrupulous about not creating an appearance of favoritism: in fact, he gave her a poorer mark on her last paper than she thought she deserved, though it was high enough that she only sulked a little. Later, in bed, he told her that her citations had been sloppy and her use of comma splices distracting. _I expect more of the students I know have more to offer,_ he told her when she complained, before he cupped her cheek to bring her lips to his.

Edith never set out to begin a liaison with Dr Strallan, and the idea of herself as youthful temptress is really quite laughable to her. Likewise, he is the furthest thing from the cliche of the worldly seducer that she can think of. She likes to think it was fate, that winter day in the market, that made them look up at exactly the same moment to meet each other's eyes over the produce bins. Not only did he recognize Edith, he actually recalled questions she'd asked in lecture. For twenty minutes they lingered by the apples, their conversation quickly becoming tangential to topics brought up in class. Finally Edith gathered up her courage and asked if he might like to go for a coffee.

"Oh, I don't know if that would be quite..." he trailed off, his kind, sad eyes skittering away from Edith's face and over her shoulder, and that was when she knew for sure he'd felt it too: something too deep to call mere attraction. More like two souls calling to each other, if you wanted to be poetic about it.

"Quite what?" She asked, smiling innocently. "We're having an interesting discussion and I'd like to continue it. What could anyone think was wrong with that?" Maybe it was disingenuous of her, but sandwiched between two such sisters as Mary and Sybil, having a man's attention was a rare enough occurrence that Edith wasn't inclined to give it up lightly. Besides, even though she has read her share of romance novels and she firmly believes in soulmates and the power of chance meetings, she is pragmatic enough to admit that sometimes kismet needs a little help.

Since then their relationship has progressed as if on rails, thanks in no small part to Edith's determination. A week after coffee they had dinner at his flat; a week after that they slept together. She is his first since his wife died, he told her afterward, looking as though he expected her to laugh. Edith's heart broke a little for him, especially when he followed up that admission with "I do hope I haven't disappointed you. I'm not very good at this sort of thing." She'd been wavering over whether to tell him just how little experience she had to compare him with but she wanted them to be on equal footing again, so she went for it.

"So you see, I can't possibly be disappointed," she laughed, and he rewarded her with a grateful smile. In the intervening months they've spent quite a lot of time together and practice, as they say, makes perfect. If older men are truly less virile than younger ones, Edith thinks that Anthony Strallan must have started out with a prodigious supply of vigor.

But conflict looms now that the term is over. Edith has never found the secrecy alluring and would like nothing better than to bring things out into the open, but Anthony argues that they should allow enough time to pass that it will be plausible that they didn't start up while she was still his student. She has agreed... grudgingly. It'll be a different story when autumn returns, if things haven't changed before then, and she hopes there will not have to be an ultimatum. She doesn't know if she has it in her to issue one.

-ooo-

University breaks before college and Sybil still has one more week of school, but the next day is Saturday and she sleeps through breakfast. This is not typical of the youngest Crawley and, judging by the talk over the dining room table, the oddity is not lost on their parents. Curiously, Mary dismisses it, saying that Sybil is probably just adopting the university student's schedule ahead of time. Edith wonders whether it's Mary's protective instinct leading her to deflect attention from Sybil's behavior, or if she actually suspects something.

It doesn't matter. Edith and Mary have never gotten on well, and Edith sees little point in speculating with her elder sister when she can get the real story from her younger one. After breakfast she goes upstairs to do just that.

Sybil is still in bed, but her door is unlocked. Edith closes it behind her loudly enough that Sybil stirs and rolls on her side, raising a face clouded in dark curls. "What time is it?" She moans peevishly.

"Late night?" Edith leans back against the door, folding her arms and fixing her sister with a significant look.

Even half asleep, Sybil covers rather well. "I was up until three studying for that bloody calculus exam I've got on Monday," she mutters.

"You were up until three in the morning studying. On a Friday night." Even if she hadn't seen Sybil sneaking back in, Edith wouldn't have bothered to hide her skepticism.

Sybil does not embroider. "Yeah. I was."

_At least she's a decent liar,_ Edith thinks. The complete lack of outrage is what rings false. "If you acted like that with Papa he'd know something was up," she remarks. "If he as much as accused you of lying and you didn't even get a little tetchy."

Sybil sits up slowly and swings her legs over the side of the bed, pushing her hair out of her face. "I don't know what you're—"

"I saw you," Edith interrupts, "last night. Coming back in." Sybil's shoulders sag and the color goes out of her face, and Edith knows that it's even worse than she thought.

Wordlessly, Sybil gets up and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. A couple of minutes later water rushes into the sink. The door opens and she comes out looking marginally refreshed. "I'm not going to tell anyone," Edith says quietly.

This does not make Sybil's eyes any less wary. "So why tell me?" She asks. They've never been particularly close either, though there's not the rivalry between them that there is between Edith and Mary.

Edith shrugs. "So you'll know to be more careful next time." She turns away, pointedly refraining from looking at Sybil to gauge the effect of her words, and strokes the fringe of an afghan laid over the back of the armchair. "So who is he?"

"What makes you think there's a _he_?"

Sybil's right: she could be sneaking off with a girlfriend or a gaggle of them, to parties or the clubs in town. But she would not look back at the car of a platonic friend that many times. "Just a feeling," Edith answers, nonchalant, but Sybil remains silent. Apparently she requires a show of good faith. "I'll tell you about mine if you'll tell me about yours."

Edith keeps her face turned away, but she can almost hear Sybil's ears pricking up. "All right," she agrees, flipping the duvet up over the wrinkled sheets and pulling herself up to sit cross-legged on top of it. "You first."

Edith perches a few feet away on the foot of the bed and gives Sybil the outline of her and Anthony's saga thus far. She is surprised by how good it feels to talk to someone about it. Sybil is a sympathetic listener, nodding and maintaining the right amount of eye contact, making the right noises.

"But after a little while longer he wants to tell people you're together?" She asks after Edith has whinged a bit about Anthony's reluctance to break secrecy. "He's said that?"

Edith drops her gaze. He hasn't said it in so many words, but he's danced around it. _I think my sister would like you,_ he told her a few weeks ago. As his sister is his closest living relative, this means something. "He's just said that we should 'allow a decent interval to pass,' whatever that means."

Sybil chuckles. "Well, if you don't mind me saying, he sounds overcautious."

"Not like you," Edith replies with a laugh, and knows she's said the wrong thing when her sister's face goes still. Nevertheless, she plunges ahead jovially. "So what's so awful about your boyfriend that you can't tell us about him?"

"Nothing," Sybil answers. "He's just not..." her shoulders rise and fall.

"I saw his car," Edith says after a moment. "I think I can figure out from that what he's _not_." She circles back to an easier question. "What's his name?"

"Tom."

"And how did you and Tom meet?" Sybil tells her and Edith's heart sinks a little. _Oh, Sybil, some random in the street? And a mechanic? _She almost groans.

"I know how it sounds," Sybil says, and Edith knows she has failed to keep her expression neutral. "But he's really very nice. And he's smart, Edith, he wants to be a writer. He got into university but after one term he realized it was all bollocks..."

Dropping out of university to become a manual laborer with delusions of literary grandeur doesn't sound smart, Edith thinks, it sounds callow and short-sighted. _Who does this bloke think he is, Jack Kerouac?_ But one look at Sybil tells her it would be useless to say a word against him.

"He's fit, I suppose?" Edith asks with a smile, and is treated to a blushing recitation of the many physical charms of Tom the Intelligent and Mechanically Inclined Irishman. _Oh, Lord, she's dead gone on him,_ Edith thinks. Then she really _notices _the dreamy look in Sybil's eyes and it hits her like a punch in the stomach. The first really wonderful time with Anthony wasn't so long ago; it's easy to recall that same look Sybil has now, because she has seen it reflected in the mirror.

_She's not a child,_ Edith tells herself. But she is so used to thinking of Sybil as the baby, as an innocent. Her stomach flutters. What would Mary do in this situation, she wonders. Obviously the main concern is Sybil's happiness, and if she feels judged—or feels as though this _Tom _is being judged—she'll only shut down. Edith scoots closer to her sister, laying a hand on her knee. "I'm glad you've met someone you like," she says. "But think how it'll look if Mama and Papa find out without you having told them. Don't you think it'd be better to let them meet him and..." her hand rises to stir the air, fingers spread wide. "...Judge him on his own merits?" Sybil laughs and opens her mouth to retort, but before she can Edith adds, "I know, I know, glass houses, throwing stones."

Sybil laughs again and then the smile falls abruptly off her face. "Do you think they'd truly judge him on his own merits? A dockworker's son from Dublin?"

She holds Edith's gaze for a long moment before her eyebrow and the side of her mouth quirk up in tandem, and the sisters fall into a bout of hilarity together. "No," Edith admits. "No, I doubt they would. But you'll never know if you don't give them the chance, will you?"

"I suppose not." Sybil still has the giggles. "What a pair we are, with our secret affairs," she says, and Edith feels such a rush of warmth for her; she wants to protect and guide her but she doesn't know how, she can hardly conduct her own life. So she pulls Sybil into a hug. After a minute she realizes that she is drawing comfort as much as offering it.

-ooo-

A few days later Anthony rings her up and asks her to meet him in town. She takes the Mercedes, driving fast with the windows down, and by the time she reaches his flat her hair is a snarled mess but she doesn't care. He doesn't even ask her in. "Why don't we go out and have lunch?" He says, and Edith raises her eyebrows but leads him back to the car without comment. For once he does not remark on her driving, though she can see him white-knuckling the door handle whenever she crawls up the arse of the car in front, and she begins to worry.

They go to a restaurant he suggests that they've both been to before, though never together. It's popular with the uni crowd, students and faculty both. Once they've been seated and served drinks Edith leans forward and plants her elbows on the table. "So this is a change," she says.

Anthony's mouth folds in half in an awkward smile. "I know." He reaches over and brushes her bare forearm with the backs of his fingers, a gesture that releases a wave of pleasure mixed with relief. It's looking less and less like he's brought her here to finish with her. "I've missed you, these past weeks," he says, and the warmth radiating from his eyes makes her want to forget all about lunch and go back to his flat. Or the car, if they can't make it that far.

She resists the urge to drop her gaze. "I've missed you as well." She has not rung him since she moved home, nor texted other than to say she arrived safely. It's been difficult, hanging back, when she is so accustomed to being the one to take the lead in this relationship. But she has _some _pride.

"But I suppose you've been busy with your family," Anthony says, sounding a little forlorn.

The waiter comes back to take their orders and while Anthony is ordering his corned beef sandwich Edith realizes that she is not going to get a grand declaration from him. _This _is his declaration, taking her to a public place, touching her in a way that one lover touches another when there are other people around. It may not be grand, but it's what he can manage. As soon as they're alone again she smiles at him and says, "This is nice, isn't it?"

"It is," he agrees. He takes her hand across the table, where anyone can see.

* * *

_AN: If this chapter seemed a bit critical of Tom, keep in mind that it's from Edith's POV. I may have to continue this... if there's interest... :)_


End file.
